Page 75 of The Christmas Keepsake
He’d told Mallory the same. And if he said it, he meant it.
“Nan is already in the community room,” Francis told her. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
Mallory knew Francis meant well, but they both knew that wasn’t always the case. “We’ll see. Thanks, Francis.” Mallory followed the noise down the hall to the open double doors of the community room, where residents and staff were milling about. Christmas music played softly in the background. The large, beautifully decorated tree from Pop’s tree farm dominated one corner, its branches laden with an eclectic mix of ornaments in addition to Nan’s for the Memory Tree.
Mallory looked around until she saw Nan sitting at a table near the tree. A half-eaten cookie with red and green sprinkles was on the plate in front of her. Her silver hair was neatly combed, and she was wearing a red sweater that Mallory recognized as one of Nan’s favorites from years past. Nan had always loved crazy Christmas sweaters, which contradicted the rest of her simple, yet classy wardrobe.
Nan’s eyes brightened with a spark of recognition when she saw Mallory approaching. “Hello there, dear.” Nan’s voice was warm but slightly uncertain. “Are you here for the party?”
Mallory managed a smile as she sat down next to her grandmother. “I’m actually here to see you, Nan. It’s me, Mallory.”
Confusion deepened the soft wrinkles on her face. “Mallory, you say? My, that’s a lovely name.” Nan averted her gaze and scanned the room. Her brow crinkled the way it used to when she was focused on outlining a script or rearranging stage directions during the rehearsals of a play. Then she turned back to Mallory. “Do you like the theater?”
Nan hadn’t talked about the theater in months. “I l-love thetheater,” Mallory finally managed, surprising herself because her answer was sincere. “I practically grew up in one.”
Nan’s face lit up. “Oh, that sounds nice! I used to run a theater, you know.”
Mallory nodded. “That sounds nice too.”
“It was…” Nan said, hesitating as if reaching for the exactly right words. “It was the most magical place in the world.”
Mallory blinked back tears. “I bet it was magical.”
As they talked, Mallory found herself slipping into the rhythm of conversation with this new version of her grandmother. Nan might not remember their shared history, but her love for the theater shone through in every anecdote, every enthusiastic gesture, as she described her favorite plays.
Alzheimer’s was such a complicated illness that Mallory still didn’t understand, even though she’d exhausted Google researching it. Even though she was a nurse. Deep down, Mallory knew that Nan probably wouldn’t hold on to this sudden knowledge of theater. Tomorrow, she might not remember the theater at all.
After a while, a staff member announced that it was time for residents to hang their memory ornaments on the community tree.
Mallory reached into her bag and pulled out the next ornament in Nan’s story. “I brought you something special.” She held up a pink baby bootie. “Look how cute this is.”
Nan turned her gaze and took in the ornament. “A sock?” she whispered quietly. “That’s an ornament?”
“Unusual, isn’t it?”
Nan stared at it intently. “I think… I think that meant something to me.”
Mallory’s heart nearly stopped. When Nan had a good day, she really did have one.
Slowly, Nan reached out and touched the ornament, her finger tapping it and causing it to sway gently like the pendulum of a clock. “Didyou know that I had a daughter? Her name was… Daisy.” Nan narrowed her eyes. “She looked like you. Are you—are you my Daisy?” Nan’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh. Oh, my. You are, aren’t you?”
The hope in Nan’s eyes broke Mallory’s heart. She wanted to tell her yes, but she didn’t want to lie. She’d never lied to Nan, and she wasn’t about to start now. “No, Nan. My name is Mallory.”
“Oh.” The light in Nan’s eyes was like a star burning out as it fell from the sky. Nan looked down at her lap.
Mallory gently placed the ornament in Nan’s age-spotted hands. “Here. Let’s hang the bootie ornament on the tree.”
Nan held the ornament, but she didn’t move. “I’m not as sprightly as I once was. I don’t think I can hang it on my own.”
Mallory stood and took control of Nan’s wheelchair, steering her toward the front of the room. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll help you.”
“Such a sweet girl.”
Once they were standing in front of the tree, Mallory locked the chair’s brakes and guided her grandmother to stand.
Nan’s hands shook as she reached out to hang the ornament, but her face was serene, almost reverent. “Daisy grew up in the theater just like you,” Nan said, talking to herself as much as to Mallory.
Mallory was encouraged that Nan was still engaging in the same conversation that they’d started five minutes earlier. “Daisy must have been such a happy child.”
